


Straight Shooting

by bewaretheboojum, Nanimok, njw, Rider_of_Spades, salazarastark (niewanyin)



Series: A Journey of Personal Discovery Through Social Isolation [10]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: BAMF Tim Drake, Civilian Tim Drake, Dimension Travel, Identity Porn, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multiverse, Shenanigans, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake is Redbird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22941508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewaretheboojum/pseuds/bewaretheboojum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok, https://archiveofourown.org/users/njw/pseuds/njw, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rider_of_Spades/pseuds/Rider_of_Spades, https://archiveofourown.org/users/niewanyin/pseuds/salazarastark
Summary: Hood stares in dumbfounded shock as Tim Drake, his replacement and sometime enemy, snickers and reaches out one uncoordinated hand to poke at his white streak. Two things happen in that moment. He spots the scar on Tim’s throat, the one he put there way back when he was at his most fucked up—or rather, he spots the smooth, pale, unmarred skin where itshould have been.He also hears Red Robin in his ear, calmly checking in with the Bats over the comms Red Hood secretly listens in on.“Well, fuck,” he says, looking with new eyes at the grinning, way too trusting teen—and he’s definitely a teen, at least a few years younger than the guy he knows. “Guess you’re not from around here, after all.”
Relationships: Tim Drake & Tim Drake, Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Series: A Journey of Personal Discovery Through Social Isolation [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1406953
Comments: 97
Kudos: 1199





	Straight Shooting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strawberryjei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryjei/gifts).



> Happy late birthday, Jei! We hope you enjoy this story and have as much fun reading it as we did writing it. Hopefully it’s worth the wait!

Tim races down the street, weaving between crashed cars and clutching his portfolio to his chest as he dodges actual freaking lasers. The Bat signal looms huge in the sky, but he’s pretty sure Batman already noticed the swarm of robots attacking what seems to be all of central Gotham at this point. He’s got to be on the case by now. Heck, maybe he’s already solved it and is currently working on implementing whatever ingenious solution he’s come up with.

None of that helps Tim right now, though.

“There’s no way something like this would’ve happened if I lived in Metropolis,” he mutters mutinously, veering around the next corner and heading toward the dubious safety of the harbor. He risks a quick glance back over his shoulder and yep, the robots are still swarming, seemingly bent on maximum destruction. Or is it _distraction?_ They don’t seem to be injuring people severely—it’s more like…

“They’re herding us,” he says flatly, stopping in his tracks and nearly taking a laser to the shoulder as a result. Indignant, he twitches to the side to dodge it. Brows drawing together in a frown, he scans the scene again, this time noting the robots’ patterns and studying them intently. “Wait, I think I know what they’re after—” he whispers, head whipping around to face Wayne Tower, visible in the distance behind him. Transferring his portfolio to one arm, he pulls out his phone and starts texting. If Batman hasn’t already figured out the villain’s objective, it won’t hurt to give him a heads up via the Gotham City Police Department hotline.

It’s been widely advertised that Wayne Enterprises is unveiling a new prototype today, intended for medical use but probably appealing to supervillains who might want to convert the tech into a weapon. He would’ve tried to go see it himself, except it overlapped with his interview with the director at the Gotham Museum of Art.

Tim’s pretty sure he made a good impression on the director, at least. The woman’s jaw actually dropped when she saw his shadowy portraits and action shots of the Dark Knight and his partners at work. He’s got some incredible images of Nightwing and Batman, but his very favorites are definitely the images of Bluejay. Of course, he was careful not to include anything potentially compromising in the portfolio for the exhibit, a copy of which he left with the director for her to peruse. All the shots of Robin are from far enough away that an observer wouldn’t be able to tell there were two of them, or pick up any hints that one grew up to be Nightwing and the other, Bluejay.

He was also careful to leave out all the ones with Batman ruffling either of his sons’ hair, or buying them ice cream after patrol. The vigilantes don’t seem to have any idea how obvious they are sometimes. Bruce Wayne has the exact same loving smile on his face whenever he’s looking at one of his kids, whether he’s wearing a mask or not.

Tim’s internship with Drake Industries starts in just a couple more weeks, and then after the summer’s over it’ll be on to the Ivy League school of his parents’ choice to complete a business degree. This is his one chance to show them he can actually do something worthwhile with his photography. Well, it was. At this point, he’d probably be satisfied with just surviving the night.

 _Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped at Gotham Grind to grab a quick cup of coffee or three as a reward for acing the interview_ , he thinks ruefully as a robot pauses in its rush to hover in front of him with a threatening whir.

“I don’t suppose you’re advanced enough to bargain with,” he says, eyeing the hodgepodge, possibly alien weaponry mounted all over the robot. These things are clearly just meant as a distraction, drawing attention away while the real action goes down at Wayne Tower. Still, that doesn’t mean they won’t seriously injure or kill if pressed. He swallows, slowly shifting his hand on his phone. Just a little farther…

One of the weapons lights up with an ominous glow as the whirring sound grows louder. Apparently, it’s done charging.

“Welp, here goes nothing,” Tim mutters, squeezing the button to activate the homemade taser built into his cell phone. It connects with the robot just as the weapon discharges in a flash of light and pressure, and the last thing he thinks before he passes out is, _oh shit._

* * *

Red Hood spots a body lying crumpled in an alley off of Grant Park and hesitates, torn. He’s already planted the bugs in the damn drug lord’s snazzy upscale apartment, and now he’s itching to get out of the fashion district and back to his regular beat. The last thing he needs is any of the Bat brats catching him this far out of his territory. The best way to deal with those assholes is from a distance. Or preferably, not at all.

Still… That looks like a teenager down there. Lots of tourists come through this part of town, some of them young idiots with no idea what they’re getting themselves into, coming to Gotham. There’s no way he’s walking away from a kid in trouble.

“Fuck,” he mutters, holstering his grapnel and dropping easily down into the alley to check on him. The drugs this gang’s been pushing are nasty, cut with household supplies. A few people have already ended up in the hospital. If this kid’s rolling on something he bought around here, it could end badly.

Approaching cautiously—this is Gotham, literally anything could turn out to be a trap—Hood nudges the teen with his boot. “Hey there, you okay?” His voice dies in his throat as he catches sight of the guy’s face. _“Replacement?”_

_Well, guess this ain’t a teenager then. Drake’s in his twenties, only a couple years younger than me. Just a shrimp. And he’s a goody-goody, so, probably not rolling on anything, either. So, what gives?_

The man’s eyelids flutter and then open. Yeah, it’s definitely Drake. Fuck, this is the last goddamn thing Hood needs right now. Clear blue eyes regard him, an expression of puzzlement slowly overtaking Drake’s annoyingly pretty—no, prissy, he means _prissy,_ face. “Uh.” He eyes Hood carefully for a long moment, then gingerly sits up, rubbing at his head. “Ow.”

Hood rolls his eyes. “The fuck happened—you were undercover and someone got the drop on you?” He scans the other man’s body, noting the casual attire and bulky canvas bag. He looks like any other university student. Hell, maybe he _is_ a university student. Hood doesn’t keep up with the Bats’ lives. Drake is still staring at him in what appears to be wide-eyed bewilderment. Frowning, Hood crouches down and swipes a gloved hand out to grasp his face.

“Hey!” Drake jerks and flails in an uncoordinated manner that does nothing to relieve Hood’s concerns about concussion. “Who are you, and what are you doing?”

Yeah, definitely a concussion. Fuck. Maybe he should call Dickhead, leave his cell phone with this idiot so one of the others can track it and find him? He considers that very tempting thought for a long moment before reluctantly dismissing it. With his luck, something worse would happen to Drake in the meantime and then the others would blame it on him. Assholes. He sighs, then reaches up and cracks the helmet release before removing it. “I’m—” he begins, only to be interrupted by Drake, who’s staring at him like he’s seen a ghost.

“Jason Todd,” Drake whispers, because apparently concussions make him forget about little details like secret goddamn identities.

“Say it a little louder, Replacement,” Hood growls, reaching out to lift him to his feet. He’s relieved and slightly concerned at how cooperative he’s being. Must be the concussion. “C’mon, I got a safe house near here. I can patch you up, and then you can sneak out a window in the middle of the night, and we can never speak of this again. It’ll be great, a real party.”

“You’re taking me to a safe house? That’s awesome! Only, where are the evil robots? Also, since when did you get a new vigilante suit? What about Bluejay? Are you calling yourself something else now? Geez, you’re really going through them! Robin, and then Flamebird, and now—well, whatever _that_ is. Red Helmet Guy? That sounds dumb. And what’s with the hair?” Drake throws his head back, laughing, a pleased grin curling his lips. He looks absurdly young, exactly like the teenager Hood mistook him for when he first spotted him sprawled in the alley.

Hood stares, dumbfounded, as Tim Drake, his replacement and sometimes enemy, snickers and reaches out one uncoordinated hand to poke at his white streak. Two things happen in that moment. He spots the scar on Tim’s throat, the one he put there way back when he was at his most fucked up—or rather, he spots the smooth, pale, unmarred skin where it _should have been._

He also hears Red Robin in his ear, calmly checking in with the Bats over the comms Red Hood secretly listens in on.

“Well, fuck,” he says, looking with new eyes at the grinning, way too trusting teen—and he’s definitely a teen, at least a few years younger than the guy he knows. “Guess you’re not from around here, after all.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that out myself just now when I realized you’re like, old and stuff. Also, the look of total bafflement on your face when I mentioned all those other vigilante names. Can you help me get home?” Drake looks at him with something like faith shining out of his big blue eyes, and hell. Jason must be someone worth trusting, in his universe.

Jesus. Well, he’s dealt with multiverse shit before. From the sound of it, that’s all this is. Thank fuck it isn’t time travel, Hood fucking _hates_ time travel. He rolls his shoulders, sighs, then starts walking the teen back toward his nearest safe house. “Yeah, I think I can figure something out.”

It’ll probably take a few weeks, though. He eyes the teen at his side again. Civilian, he’s guessing. Nothing about this guy’s uncoordinated movements or actions so far says anything about vigilante, or even basic self-defense training. “How would you feel about learning a few ways to defend yourself, in the meantime?”

The grin on his face is all the answer Hood needs. He chuckles. This is going to be fun.

* * *

Tim’s hands sting from the recoil of the gun he’s been using. He rubs his palms against the fabric of his borrowed sweatpants, hoping to soothe the reddened skin. Cutting his eyes to the side to take in Jason walking tall beside him, Tim tries to gauge if Jason can tell how much he’s aching.

If he can tell, Tim isn’t good enough at reading him yet to be able to determine it.

Tim’s working hard not to limp as they walk back to Jason’s hideout after having spent most of the morning at the gun range out by the Water District. Despite the earplugs he used at the range, his ears are still ringing. The ambient noise of Gotham City feels even louder than usual to his sensitive ears.

“So many things are different between my universe and yours,” Tim muses as they walk. “But it’s a little funny how Gotham sounds and smells the same.”

Jason makes a soft, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat and tilts his head to the side.

“That’s… almost comforting. In a way.” 

A long pause stretches between them and Tim tries hard not to look in the direction of Drake Industries Corporate HQ. In his own universe, Drake Tower stretches high into the Gotham skyline just to the left of where they’re walking. Drake Tower is just as high as Wayne Tower, but Tim’s mother had insisted on a less classic form of architecture and there’s a cutout in the building at the top that, when illuminated with lights in the evening, looks like a large green D in the Gotham skyline.

Ever since he arrived in this universe, Tim’s been trying hard to focus on learning from Jason, seeing new things, and enjoying the experience. He tries not to wonder if his mother is missing him back in his own universe.

Swallowing hard, Tim attempts to engage Jason in conversation again.

“Yeah, everything is just close enough that sometimes I forget I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Then I catch sight of the skyline and…”

Tim trails off with a shrug and a vague gesture.

Jason nods and purses his lips.

“I just wish I had my camera with me,” Tim presses. “It feels weird to be walking around Gotham without it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, makes me feel… unprepared. Almost like…”

“Almost like what?”

Tim looks up at Jason and shoots him a sly smile.

“Almost like I’m wearing someone else’s sweatpants and they don’t quite fit.”

Jason gives him a short, half-smile before looking off into the distance again.

While Tim isn’t great at reading him just yet, he can tell that Jason is feeling guilty that he hasn’t yet figured out a way to get him back to where he belongs.

“You did good today,” Jason says thoughtfully. “At the range.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to know I can use the guns to stop someone without having to worry the bullet will be lethal. Though…”

“Yeah?”

“I hope I never have to try.”

“Me too, man,” Jason replies grimly.

“So. Gyros for lunch?” Tim suggests, hoping to distract Jason out of the mood Tim’s pretty sure he’s about to fall into.

“Gyros sound good,” Jason says. “Then we’ll hit the mats again before I have to head out for patrol.”

“More mats?” Tim asks, trying hard not to grimace. “Great.”

Jason shoots him a half-smile and looks down at him knowingly.

“Sore?”

“I’ve been more sore…” Tim hedges.

“Have you?”

“Absolutely not,” he admits with a firm shake of his head.

Jason huffs out a soft laugh and smiles down at him.

The guns have been a challenge, loud and powerful in ways Tim didn’t expect. The hand to hand self-defense… That’s something else entirely. Tim is learning to move in ways he never realized he could.

They stop for two gyros and some fries on their way back to Jason’s hideout. It’s pushing three in the afternoon by the time they get back. They set up on Jason’s sofa and compare notes on the Knights’ batting order between their respective universes as they eat.

Talking to Jason is easier than Tim expected. While the two of them don't have a ton in common, it’s still easy to talk and joke about baseball, Bruce, and the quirks of living in Gotham City.

“All I’m saying is that Carter has had a better on-base percentage and should be higher in the batter order than Heathershaw.”

“Man… we traded Carter to the Rockets last season.” Tim grumbles into his fries.

“Really?”

“Yeah, don’t rub it in.”

“I won’t, but I mean… That sucks.”

“Saying ‘that sucks’ is the definition of rubbing it in,” Tim says bitterly, throwing a french fry at Jason.

Jason catches it and pops it into his mouth with a grin.

“Save that aggression for the mats, Timbo.”

Tim grimaces and shoots him a glare.

“Just remember you said that when I wipe the floor with you.”

Jason just laughs at that and Tim throws another french fry at him.

* * *

Jason forces himself to blank his mind and just let his body move as he grips Tim by the wrist and hip and uses a controlled throw to drop him to the floor. Tim hits the mats with a loud thump, his break-fall not exactly perfect but good enough that he wouldn’t break anything.

Stepping back, Jason watches as Tim takes a minute to lie on the floor, gasping for breath.

“You ok?” Jason asks, eyeing him carefully.

He’s trying very, very hard not to notice how Tim’s rucked up shirt is displaying a flat, pale stomach and the jut of a slender hipbone. He grimaces, looking away. This guy’s only eighteen. Besides that, he’s leaving soon. Whatever, Jason’s probably just noticing because he’s had a bit of a dry spell lately. It’ll be fine. Anyway, the last thing he needs is an attraction to Tim Drake, not when there isn’t a chance in hell _his_ Drake would ever be interested.

Tim groans and shakes his head, lifting a hand to run through his hair. “I’m perfect,” he mutters as he sits up and tosses Jason a dirty look.

Bright blue eyes glare out at Jason from under the fall of dark sweaty bangs. Tim’s cheeks are flushed and his skin glows with exertion.

Jason swallows hard and makes himself look away from Tim and at the clock on his desk.

“You should do the stretches I taught you,” Jason says gruffly. “I’ve got to get ready for patrol.”

“You’re the boss,” Tim says, and moves smoothly into the first of his stretches.

Jason looks away with an effort and heads back to the laptop on the desk in his training area. Flipping it open, he checks his messages to see if the searches he’s conducting in Oracle’s databases have turned up anything about how to get Tim back to the universe where he belongs.

The search results… don’t turn up much. A couple of notes Bruce took on Boom Tubes, a write up on Rip Hunter, a couple of things about black holes, but…

Nothing about robots mysteriously transporting people to unknown dimensions.

Not awesome.

He’s clearly going to need some help with this. It’s bad enough he didn’t even think to try and find Tim some clothes that fit right.

He hears Tim trying to suppress a gasp as he moves into another stretch. Pointedly, Jason doesn’t look over at him.

He fights down a sigh, trying to keep the disappointment and guilt he’s feeling off his face. Tim is… very perceptive, no matter what universe he is from. Jason’s just glad this Tim seems more interested in talking about baseball and less interested in making cutting remarks about Jason’s leather jacket collection.

Shaking his head, Jason pulls up Babs’ number on his phone and starts texting.

*Hey Babs, you got some time to help me with a problem that sort of fell into my lap?*

*Is this problem related to the two tons of explosive devices that have gone missing from Tricorner Yards?*

*No…*

*Would you consider this more important than two tons of explosive devices having gone missing from Tricorner Yards?*

*No…*

*Then don’t bother me. Unless you happen upon two tons of explosive devices.*

*Roger.*

Jason sighs and leans back in his desk chair, cutting his eyes to where Tim’s still stretching on the mats.

Dick is currently off planet with the Titans, Damian is even less likely to help Drake than Jason is, Babs is clearly occupied, and Jason would rather do just about anything before he’d call Bruce for help.

That doesn’t leave him a lot of options for help getting Tim back to where he belongs.

Rubbing his hands over his face in frustration, Jason shakes his head and picks his phone back up off the desk. He pulls up his universe’s Drake’s phone number and starts a text thread with him.

*Hey, I have a little problem I may need your help with...* Jason texts.

The icon indicating that his Drake is texting back pops up on his screen.

*Is this problem related to finding somewhere to hide two tons of explosive devices that have gone missing from Tricorner Yards?*

*Nope.*

*Ok, so what's the problem?*

Jason considers how to answer the question before finally just snapping a picture of the stretching Tim and texting it to his Drake.

The typing icon starts up again right away. Jason watches it for several long seconds as Tim works on typing out his response. Jason can’t help but smile to himself, wishing he could be there to see Tim’s reaction.

*Well, shit.* Tim texts back simply.

*Yup.*

*I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t let him leave.*

*Need the address?*

*Of your place or where you’re hiding the explosives?*

*I don’t have the explosives.*

*Then I don’t need any addresses from you.*

*Fine. Bring a change of clothes.* Jason texts. Then, as an afterthought, adds one more thing. *And one of your cameras.*

*Why?*

*Because you’re you no matter what the universe. Don’t forget the camera.*

Jason huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He watches Tim moving into his last batch of stretches. He’s absolutely looking forward to seeing his Drake and Tim interacting with each other. He has a feeling it will be pretty damn entertaining.

* * *

Tim watches his counterpart, who’s holding his new camera and grinning at Jason as they sit on the couch together and chat amicably about baseball, of all things. His alternate self is clearly completely comfortable with the other man, trusting him implicitly. It shows in his body language. It’s strange.

Stranger still, Jason seems more at ease than Tim’s ever seen him, at least not since he clawed his way out of his grave and back into their lives. Jason laughs, open and happy, and for a moment it’s like he’s Robin again, strong and brave and kind beneath the bluster.

Tim… thought that side of Jason was gone. Or at least, not something _he_ would ever be allowed to see. Well, apparently his other self gets a pass on the whole replacement thing. It makes sense, considering this younger version of him never seems to have become a vigilante in the first place. Not to mention he’s barely eighteen, so much younger than Tim’s twenty-two and Jason’s twenty-five. Jason tends to be protective of kids.

Of course Jason would accept him more readily. That smile, those laughs—they’ll never be for _Tim._ The best he can expect is barbed insults. Eh, he’ll take it. They’ve come a ways from when he could expect sharp objects thrown at him along with the sharp words, at least. He grimaces internally as his mind helpfully reminds him of the last time he saw Red Hood, when the other vigilante took a swing at him for being on the wrong side of town.

Okay, so hopefully Jason will tolerate his presence here long enough to send his alternate self home before any punches or knives get thrown.

“Well?” Jason’s voice pulls Tim out of his thoughts, and he realizes the others have stopped talking and are both looking at him expectantly.

Running the last few sentences back through his mind to figure out what they want, he blinks, then replies. “It sounds like a pretty straightforward interdimensional portal, complicated by the fact that your taser application may have amplified or even substantially altered the performance of the alien tech beyond its intended purpose. For example—”

The other Tim frowns, clearly following his line of thought. “The weapon may have been meant to transport someone to a set location, possibly significantly nearer to home, and my taser shot threw it off.”

Tim nods. “Exactly! I can think of at least three different pieces of tech the Titans confiscated over the years that _might_ throw someone into a different universe, if we tinkered with them a bit.” He falls into contemplation then, mind racing through the modifications he could probably make.

“Can you show me?” The other Tim—ugh, Tim’s really going to need to find something better to call him soon—asks, looking eager.

 _Timmy. From now on, this guy’s name is Timmy,_ Tim decides. Briefly considering how much he himself would object to being called Timmy, he decides to wait until later to tell him about his new nickname.

Looking at his counterpart’s excited expression, Tim bites his lip. He’d meant to just take some readings, then head back to the Nest to crunch numbers and dig into the tech side of things on his own. He and Jason are a volatile combination, and the sooner he gets himself out of here, the less likely things are to blow up.

Any misgivings he’d had about leaving any version of himself in the Red Hood’s not so tender care have settled over the time he’s spent here. Really, it’s been obvious since the moment he got here and saw Jason Todd, sprawled and grinning on the couch with a different Tim Drake, that the man doesn’t view his multiverse guest through the same lens of resentment and anger he does Tim.

“Please?” Timmy presses, looking eager and so damn young, and really, it’s impossible to say no.

“Fine,” Tim gives in, then shoots a cautious glance over at Jason. The last thing he wants is to overstay his welcome. This is one of Red Hood’s safe houses, which means he’s got weapons stashed all over and the home advantage. He could probably do some real damage if things escalate here.

“Sounds like a plan,” Jason says with a nod. The doorbell rings and they all turn toward it, Jason frowning and straightening slightly. “I’m not expecting anyone else,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. His hand starts to edge down under the couch cushions.

Tim tenses, watching his movements, on high alert as his mind calculates escape routes and the probability of being able to grab Timmy and shield him if they need to bail quickly in a firefight.

A soft cough draws their attention back to Timmy, who rises to his feet, blushing. “I, uh, ordered pizza.” He glances at Tim, shrugging apologetically. “My credit cards still work here, but it’s _possible_ you’ll end up paying the bill?” He smiles disarmingly before moving stiffly toward the door.

Jason snorts, visibly relaxing at his words. He shakes his head and bites back a smile. “Can’t get that kid to stick to healthy food, no matter what the hell I try,” he complains, shooting Tim a commiserating look before seemingly remembering who he’s talking to and looking away with a grimace.

Tim almost misses that, because he’s on his feet crowding up behind his counterpart. That _smell._ Mmm. “Is that Canadian bacon, artichoke hearts, and onions?” he asks reverently, stomach growling loudly. He retains enough sense to not turn his back completely on the threat in the room, but… _best pizza._

“Of course,” Timmy replies, looking mildly insulted that it was even a question. They head back over to the couch, pulling slices out of the box and then taking matching enormous bites. 

Tim eyes his counterpart as he sits down, making a credible effort at trying to hide how stiff and sore he obviously is. He waits until Timmy takes another massive bite before saying, “So, I’m guessing you guys have been training?”

Timmy pauses mid-bite, blinking up at him, then nods.

Jason growls, running his fingers through his hair and scowling. “Yeah, I’ve been teaching him a thing or two. If you’re gonna start on me about the damn guns, then get the hell outta my house right now.” His volume is growing and he sounds defensive, which is the last thing Tim wants right now.

“Wait, guns?” At Tim’s blurted words, Jason looks like he’s going to explode. Not good. Holding his hands up defensively, pizza still clutched in one, Tim shakes his head. “Okay, we’ll come back to that. I’m not saying you shouldn’t train him. It’s a good idea for him to know how to take care of himself. Just…” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Well, I’ve got a lot of experience with the kinds of moves and strategies that work best with our body type. I could help out, too.” He notices Timmy looking relieved, and sends him a smirk. “Not that you’ll be any less sore with me training you. Might even be worse.”

“...Great.” Timmy chomps another bite of pizza and chews, looking mutinous.

Jason looks surprised, then cautious. Still eyeing Tim watchfully, he nods slowly. “Yeah, that sounds okay. Might as well get some more use out of you, if you’re gonna be hanging around working on the tech side of things.”

Tim bites into his pizza again, relieved when Timmy starts up another conversation about baseball and some of the storm cloud leaves Jason’s face. Watching them talking and laughing together, he wonders what it would be like to be someone Jason didn’t hate. It looks… kind of awesome.

Yeah, never gonna happen.

Blinking, he shakes it off and starts turning over training plans for Timmy in his mind. As the details come together, he smirks. Oh, this is going to be _fun._

* * *

Training with Jason was like slipping on a new pair of combat boots two sizes too big and promptly following said man as he jumped off Gotham Bridge without a bungee cord. His counterpart is different; he eases you into shoes which hug your feet and bring a false sense of comfort. He clicks the cord onto your belt, and coaxes you gently onto the edge of the jumping platform. Then, only then, does he unleash the ruthless side he hides under his gremlin façade and pushes you off without any warning. 

“This isn’t bad,” Tim wheezes, in between his pull-ups. “After… training with… Jason… this feels like… a walk in the… Batpark.”

Drake does a cast to horizontal. His body is ninety degrees to the bar. He holds it there, a taut, straight line. “Are you putting ‘Bat-’ in front of everything we do now?”

Meanwhile, his muscles are screaming again. “Bat-yeah, I am.”

“Heh heh,” Drake _actually_ says, out loud. In approval. “It’d do you well to save your breath, though. I remember how hard it was when I first started training, and these exercises are just a warm-up.”

“A warm-up?” Tim squawks. “Like… for a nap?”

“For combat training.”

“But Jason’s already teaching me how.”

“ _Jason_ is also six-foot-two and weighs more than two hundred pounds,” Drake says. “Granted, he’s beaten meta-humans bigger, faster, and stronger than him. But between me and him, I’ll have a better insight on optimizing our body for combat. In fact, Bruce might be Batman, but by the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be com-Batman.”

“Great,” Tim says.

God, this guy really is him. A crazily, unbelievably athletic version of him.

Tim pulls himself up and his chin brushes the bar. “We need to sort out who’s who, by the way. So, Timothy—”

“Tim.”

“Drake?”

“Tim.”

“Timbo.”

“Tim.”

“Timbaroo.”

“No, Timmy—”

 _“Timmy?”_ Tim asks incredulously.

“—Tim.”

“Come on,” he whines. “Tim Tam?”

“Close,” Drake says. “Tim, though.”

“Drake-cakes.”

Drake blinks. “What?"

“You know,” Tim says. “Cus it rhymes, and we’re sweet and spongy.”

“What does that even mean?” Drake mutters. “Remember to breathe and finish your warm-ups first. I forgot how much I could talk.”

“Lucky you,” Jason says, appearing out of nowhere. “Wish I could say the same.”

Tim yelps and his hands slip. Luckily, he remembers how to land; with the top of his foot first, then the rest of his foot—distributing the shock up his legs, even as his bones feel like they’re rattling.

He throws a glare at Jason. “I could have _died,_ ” he emphasizes.

As gracefully as he can, he flops onto the ground. The floor is cold, and it cools Tim’s tense, aching muscles. He sighs in contentment.

Jason, with wet hair and a towel around his neck, exchanges a fairly pained look with his alternate self still on the bars.

Tim’s hair is wet because he’s already sweated his body weight in water. Jason’s hair is probably wet because he’s fresh from a shower—and imagining a wet, glistening Jason in the shower causes more havoc in his mind than said man’s training routine.

At least Jason has the decency to pull Tim off the ground. Then he has to go ruin it by adopting his alternate self’s nickname for him.

“Here’s the plan, Timmy—”

Tim narrows his eyes at a smirking Drake.

“—I’m off to do errands while Drake’s training you. Don’t call unless it’s an emergency. If you _do_ call and I don’t pick up or return the call within a week—”

Tim nods, muttering, “Right. Not like I have abandonment issues or anything. Also, a week?”

“Then assume the worst and tell Roy he needs to shave off his awful goatee before he can come to my funeral. A tiny little buzz with a buzzer doesn’t count.”

“Cruel but necessary,” Tim says. “What kind of errands?”

“Bloody ones,” Jason says. “With serrated knives, duffle bags, and decapitated heads. Lots of them.”

Landing neatly on his feet, Drake rolls his eyes. “I get it.”

“Gross,” Tim says. “Remember to wipe your boots on the mat when you get home.”

“Are things going to escalate that far though?” Drake asks.

“Nah,” Jason says. “Although you never know with Gotham. Some people need a good roughing up and I’ve brought home enough loose teeth to make a necklace out of them at this point.”

“Or you could barter a good price with the Tooth Fairy,” Tim says. “I mean, didn’t you say that Santa gave Darkseid a lump of coal every year?”

“You think the Tooth Fairy would want the kind of teeth I’ve seen around here?”

“I’m sure you could sweet-talk her into accepting it,” Tim says. “Imagine having the Tooth Fairy on your side. You’d never have to worry about security systems ever again.”

The corner of Jason’s lips twitches for less than a second. Tim sees it, though, and he sees how Drake almost frowns when he notices it too.

* * *

Drake’s combat lessons boil down to momentum. Momentum, momentum, _momentum_.

Tim will rarely have a height, weight, or strength advantage, so the focus is on speed, agility, flexibility, stamina, and above all, ingenuity. Countless hours are spent with Tim being smacked onto the mat, then with Drake being clumsily swept onto the mat, but with each successive drill, Tim can feel the action carve itself deeper into his muscle memory. There’s also the benefit of Drake knowing _exactly_ how Tim absorbs information. The crash course on weapons, nerve points, battle tactics, and technology feels like more information than he’s absorbed in all eighteen years of his life. His brain throbs, but he’s having the time of his life.

Then there’s the conundrum of Jason and Drake, and the accidental cycle of tension they seem to have knotted themselves in.

There are moments where Jason and Drake seem to be genuinely getting along, spitting rapid-fire banter which Tim could only hope to understand. Then Jason clams up—and it’s always Jason, Tim notes. His playful nips are always the first to pierce skin—and he spits something which angers Drake. Impulse gets the better of them. They devolve into insults. Hurtful accusations are hurled.

They both walk away.

It leaves Tim absolutely befuddled.

Tim has catalogued each and every one of their expressions and his interpretation of the situation is this: at some point—due to their contentious history, Tim guesses—Jason misinterprets Drake’s words to be more underhanded than what Drake probably means, and he lashes out. Drake, surprised and a little hurt by Jason’s turnaround, would quickly strike back.

Tim knows himself well. As much as he thinks highly of his skills to be a subtle and careful wordsmith… he really isn’t. Words often come out cold and cutting. Unintentionally callous, and accidentally vicious.

The whole thing would then explode into a resentful mess, and they’d both stomp away fuming, arming each other with sharper words for the next time.

 _Oh dear,_ Tim thinks, massaging the bridge of his nose.

How would he even begin to approach Drake or Jason with any of this? In the same situation, Tim would make himself scarce before the words, _‘feelings’_ could reach his ears and Tim doesn’t have the skill to track down Drake if he does skedaddle into thin air. As for Jason…

Tim can count the number of times Drake has taken a jab at their past. It’s the number of broken punching bags in Jason’s training room.

He needs divine intervention right now. Or another inter-dimensional intervention—he’s not fussy.

Anything, really, to stop his alternate self and Jason from ruining a good thing before it can begin.

* * *

Tim ambushes Jason in the middle of dinner preparations—a decision with its advantages and disadvantages. The kitchen is one of Jason’s happy places, and Tim’s sure he can pin him down there (the Alfred in Jason would never risk burning their food) but—and this is a _big_ but—Jason uses a butcher’s cleaver to chop his vegetables. A very sharp and menacing-looking cleaver.

Tim leans one hip on the counter and clears his throat. “ _Angelo,_ ” he says, one hand on his forehead. “ _There is a kind of character in thy life, / That to the observer doth thy history / Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings—_ ”

“— _Are not thine own so proper as to waste / Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee,_ ” Jason says, sliding cubed carrots off his knife and into the pot. “Duke Vincentio. Act I, Scene 1 of _Measure for Measure_ by the Big Guy.”

Tim stifles a snort. “And I thought you were a real academic there.”

“Fuck you, Timmy. I still am,” Jason says, with no heat. “Could you make yourself useful and stir the pot, please?”

 _Stir the pot, indeed,_ Tim thinks.

He does take his station handling the wooden spoon. The scrumptious beginnings of Jason’s stew wafts around the kitchen, earthy and warm. Tim melts, and his stomach gives a hungry rumble.

“I didn’t know you were into Shakespeare.”

“I’m not,” Tim says. “I was just snooping through your bookcase, and picked one out with the prettiest cover.”

“How did that go for you?”

“My brain bled through my ears.”

Jason chuckles, his knife _tap-tap-tapping_ away on the cutting board. “Good. Thoughts?”

Tim’s eyebrows shoot into the sky. “Bold of you to assume I understood it at all.”

Jason snorts, but then he does a double take as Tim blinks at him from his spot. “Wait,” he says. “You’re serious.”

“Wait. Why is that such a surprise?”

“Tim,” Jason says. “You’re a detective. Sort of. In training, anyway.”

“You can be a detective and still be a dumbass,” Tim says. “Obviously.”

Jason shakes his head at him. “Unbelievable.”

 _“Come on.”_ Tim points at him with the wooden spoon. “With the pace of the performers firing off their lines, how do you even begin to _think_ under the onslaught of—Shakespereaness!”

“Shakespereaness,” Jason mutters under his breath, with heavy undertones of ‘ _you uncultured swine’_ underneath. “Next thing you’ll tell me that Angelo’s a really cool guy or something.”

Tim purses his lips. “I… skimmed?”

The cleaver slams onto the chopping board. Tim almost jumps. Thankfully, neither Jason’s nor Tim’s fingers were anywhere near it, since Jason’s fuming and pointing a finger at him. “He’s a tyrant who threatened a nun to sleep with him—I can’t believe you. I honestly can’t believe you.”

“My friends call it selective perceptiveness,” Tim offers. “Whenever I’m not looking at a puzzle, my brain goes on vacation, even when I beg it to come back.”

Jason shakes his head again, but this time it’s almost fond. “Should’ve given you the benefit of the doubt, huh?”

That’s it. Those are the magic words.

Tim turns to Jason and beams at him with his most innocuous smile. When Jason’s look only turns quizzical, and the pot churns bubbly, since Tim forgot to keep stirring—whoops—it becomes clear that Jason has no idea that he said the magic words.

“Jason,” Tim sighs. “You know you’re really smart, right?”

Jason instantly eyes him warily. “Yeah.”

“Both book smart and people smart,” Tim says. “It’s why whatever you’re doing as Red Hood is helping. It’s why that whole thing works—because you know what needs to be done, and when you don’t, you listen to what Gotham has to say.”

Jason’s concern only etches a deeper groove onto his forehead, even as the tips of his ears turn red. He puts down the knife, and rests his hip on the counter, mimicking Tim’s pose. “Timmy, what’s this about?”

“You know that Drake thinks the same thing too, don’t you?”

Jason grimaces, and it’s almost as if Tim can physically see his expression shutter closed.

“Hear me out,” Tim says. “I may not be able to read Shakespeare, but I can read myself. Whatever Drake might have thought at first, he admires you now. He respects you. He likes talking to you—when you both get along. What I want to know is why you assume Drake thinks otherwise?”

Jason doesn’t answer, only hardening his jaw and glaring at the chopping board.

“I’m not going to rush you.” Tim brings his hands up. “Just… think about it, okay?”

* * *

That night, Jason disappears after dinner, and Drake follows suit. Tim sneaks into Jason’s computer room, rummaging through his archives for a deeper insight on Drake’s and Jason’s history in this universe—

More accurately, he _tries._

 _Access Denied,_ Tim reads.

“Oh, come on,” Tim groans, flopping his face onto the keyboard.

The screen then flashes. Tim peeks up, hoping that his face-flop might have unlocked something by pure coincidence.

No luck, of course.

_Get on my level, Scrub._

“Now that’s just mean,” Tim says, but he does eye the reference book Jason laid out on the table previously.

Jason’s setup includes cameras and bugs not just in his own properties, but in other properties around Crime Alley. There’s not much going on tonight. The one-off person walking home, huddled in their coat. A couple of people working the streets—Tim bets if he had access to Jason’s computer, he’d know who’s who and what’s what around the area.

He does forget himself in the books Jason left, supplementing his skills into something that works towards rivaling his counterpart’s, hopefully. Time passes. He changes his position in the chair when his leg starts to cramp. Nothing much changes in the cameras. Nothing really catches his attention until he notices Drake and Jason parking their vehicles back in the garage.

The audio’s not on, but it’s clear that they’re arguing by the sharp movements of their bodies. Jason slips off his helmet hurriedly, and Drake’s shoulders are tense. His back is facing the camera, so Tim doesn’t have a clear view of his lips.

He should let them fight it out privately… but Tim was born nosier than the neighborhood grandma.

He turns on the audio for the garage.

"—en your face looks like a sour lemon all the time.”

"I don't know, _Jason_." Drake looks pained. "I don’t know why my face looks like I sucked a lemon all the time. Maybe it's because I'm tired of you looking at me and seeing a punching bag in my stead. I’m not Dick and I’m not Bruce, but I _am_ sick of reaching out only to get my wrist chopped off and having my mutilated hand thrown back in my face. Figuratively. Look, I won’t pretend like I know you the way Bruce and Dick do. I came in too late, and I’ve been trying to catch up ever since—”

Jason folds his arms. “They know jack shit anyway.”

“—but there’s someone out there who knows you better than both of them, I bet. And when he talks, I listen.”

A sharp inhale, like Jason’s letting himself feel something he’s been trying to hide for a long time. He sighs tiredly. “And what’s Alfred been saying?” he asks.

“How you used to go to museums in your spare time for fun,” Drake says. “How you wrote those short stories and read them to him while he was cooking dinner. How he hopes you’ve been keeping up with the things that made you happy when you were younger. How you should really stop dodging his calls because he misses having you around the house.”

 _Unbelievable,_ Tim thinks, his own chest squeezing tight. _Alfred has all the power here and he knows it._

“So, maybe I don’t know you that well,” Drake says. “But Alfred does, and everything he says—well—it’s consistent with the kind of person who’d help a stranger reach their home in another dimension just because they can.”

Another pause, and Tim wishes Jason wasn’t wearing his domino so he could get a read on his eyes.

Then he huffs, and it almost sounds—regretful. “A hell of a picture you painted before, Replacement,” Jason says. 

“Yeah, well.” Drake deflates. “I’ve got an overactive mind. You would know that—oh wait. You don’t.”

“I get it. I don’t know you… but…” Jason rubs his hand over his face. “I think I want to… and…” Jason throws a look at the camera Tim is snooping on, and Tim sinks into his chair, burying his squeak. “I think I’m starting to.”

Tim figures it’s time to stop hiding, so that both Jason and Drake can stop pretending like they didn’t know he’s been listening. He’s pretty sure his counterpart wouldn’t care, at least.

“In my defense,” Tim says into the mic. “I was here first.”

He was also trying to snoop around Jason’s files out of curiosity… but Jason really doesn’t need to know that.

“What happened to getting an early sleep?” Jason asks.

“Never heard of it,” Tim says. “Now, are you two going to make up or what? I feel like I’m owed an apology at least.”

Drake tilts his head at Jason. “I’m inclined to agree with myself.”

“Oh, great,” Jason grumbles. “Now the two of you are ganging up on me.”

“And it’s not even a dream,” Tim says. “Doesn’t this feel like an early birthday prese—”

“Well?” Drake cuts off tactfully.

Jason thins his lips, before both of his shoulder slackens. “I’m… sorry, Tim. There’s a lot of them in you, and I forget, at times.”

“But I’m not them, am I?”

“No, you’re not,” Jason agrees. 

Holding his helmet under his arm, Jason offers the other one a handshake.

Drake clasps his hand.

Tim leans in, engrossed. 

“I can’t promise that I won’t slip back once in a while.” Jason squeezes his hand. “I’ll work on it. That, I promise you. ”

“I suck,” Drake blurts out.

Jason raises one eyebrow. Tim almost slips off his seat. 

“I mean I suck with my words.” Drake’s whole face turns red. “Not like that— _stop laughing, Timmy!_ Sometimes, I don’t realize how… _bad_ things sound. How it’s nothing like what I actually mean to say. So, just tell me when that happens, okay? I’ll reel myself back in and work on it too.”

“Alright,” Jason says. “Although, sometimes I think you’re doing quite well for yourself.”

“Well, when you’re at the bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up,” Tim adds in helpfully.

“I’m you too, Timmy,” Drake says. “You’re just insulting yourself.”

“It’s called being self-aware.”

“It’s called being self— _shut-up,_ ” Drake counters.

“Jesus Christ,” Jason murmurs. “Twenty-first century poets you are, the both of you.”

* * *

Dumping his load of groceries on the pristine granite countertop in Drake’s ritzy apartment, Jason glances around and then snorts. This place is so damn clean, it’s painful. It doesn’t help that he’s not quite sure how he feels about Drake having offered the use of his own computer labs to run some of the more complicated and potentially dangerous tests to send Timmy home.

On the one hand, he’s sure as hell better equipped than Jason for that kind of thing. On the other, this place screams rich in a way that reminds him uncomfortably of _before._ Fuck it. Maybe he should just start cooking, make the place feel a little less fancy and a little more lived-in. He’s pretty sure the only thing that’s ever been cooked in this kitchen was prepared using the microwave or the coffee maker. Mostly the latter, if he’s any judge of Drake’s habits.

Well, that’s about to change. Smirking, he begins sorting out the fresh produce, chicken, and other goodies he picked up at the bodega down the street. The Tims are getting homemade chicken fajitas tonight, and damn it, they’re going to _like_ it.

As he pulls out what look suspiciously like brand new, never-before-used pots, pans, and knives, Jason reflects back on the past few days. He’s kind of amazed at how well everything’s been going since Timmy staged his little intervention and inspired him to actually _talk_ to Drake without looking for a fight for once. He’s not sure what he expected, exactly—probably just more of the same suspicion, distrust, verbal lashing out, and occasional physical violence that has always marked his every interaction with Drake. That sure as hell isn’t what he’s gotten, though.

Not only has Drake been polite and friendly—at least for him—he’s even offered his own Nest up for testing out the possible methods of sending their visitor home. His crime lab and computer system are pretty awesome, and his kitchen is so beautiful it’s a damn crime it’s clearly never seen any use. This isn’t just a random safe house, it’s his _home,_ and he’s trusting Jason to be here. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel about that.

“Mmm, what’s that?”

At the sound, Jason turns to see a dark head bent over the skillet full of chopped vegetables next to him as a slim hand reaches out to try to steal a slice of bell pepper. Rolling his eyes, he allows it. Both Tims are definitely in need of better nutrition, so he’s not about to protest extra veggie consumption. Hell, as far as he knows, neither one of them went to bed last night at all. This is the first time he’s seen them since they disappeared into the lab after a marathon training session in which he’s pretty sure Drake almost made Timmy actually cry.

“Smells good,” another voice says, and Jason turns the other way to see another dark head, this one with a messy bun. This Tim is inspecting the sizzling chicken, his eyes glazed with exhaustion. He darts out a hand, trying to snag a piece.

“No,” Jason scolds, snagging the hand and keeping it. “You trying to burn yourself or something?” The state they’re in, he’s legitimately worried one of these idiots will grab the hot pan. Or fall asleep standing up and faceplant in it.

Both Tims are wearing soft sweatpants and graphic tees, with socks on their feet and that dazed look they seem to get after diving into a tech problem for hours on end. Jason can maybe be excused for not immediately realizing the one whose hand he’s confiscated is _Drake_ and not _Timmy._ Although it’s still embarrassing as hell when the man tugs, looking uncomfortable as he tries to get free. “Uh, fuck. Sorry,” Jason mutters, letting go like he’s the one who almost got burned.

“It’s fine,” Drake murmurs, already trying for the chicken again.

Rolling his eyes, Jason grabs his hand again, then freezes as Drake grumbles and leans into his side, clearly not aware he’s doing so because he’s half asleep on his feet. When he’s not verbally eviscerating Jason or making him so damn furious he sees green, Drake’s actually pretty goddamn endearing. One downside of having his universe’s Tim acting almost as sweet and trusting as their guest is it’s getting a hell of a lot harder to keep his own boundaries up around the guy.

He’s starting to wonder if he even wants to.

There’s a soft click and he glances up in time to see Timmy lowering his camera, smirking at them. Little shit.

Clearing his throat, he lets go of Drake before turning his attention back to the stovetop, conscientiously stirring everything and then turning down the heat before looking back at the others. “So, you guys make any progress today?”

Timmy answers, mouth stuffed so full of bell peppers he looks like a squirrel. “Yessh.” He swallows, then tries again. “We did! The first couple of devices didn’t adapt so great to the additional energy surge, but the Duomalion teleporter shows some real promise. The tech even looks a lot like what I remember seeing on the robots!”

Jason raises his eyebrows, amused at the teen’s excitement. “Yeah?”

Nodding enthusiastically, Timmy grabs another bell pepper slice and chomps it before continuing. “And even our failures are kind of cool. One of the devices we messed around with was more of a tracker than a teleporter to start with, and after our experiments it ended up as a kind of _multiverse_ tracker.” He frowns slightly. “Well, more of an alternate self tracker? It can be tuned to the person using it, and then used to track down any alternate selves who might be wandering around. Tim and I were able to use it to track each other down during testing. It’s useless for sending me back, obviously, but we figure it might come in handy down the line if any evil alternates ever come to visit.”

Turning to Drake, Jason chuckles, shaking his head. Trust the Tims to be smart enough to repurpose even their failures into something useful. “Good job, Replace—” He breaks off as Drake’s face falls briefly before smoothing out into a creepily blank expression. It’s a tell he never noticed before. Probably one he’d never have seen, if this situation hadn’t put him around a vulnerable Tim Drake with his walls down because he’s tired and in his own home. Blinking as he tries to process all that, he corrects himself. “Good going, Tim.”

The smile that gets him is small, but real, and are those _butterflies in his goddamn stomach?_

 _Welp,_ Jason thinks, turning back to the stovetop like that will save him. _I’m screwed._

* * *

“Are you guys sure this is even safe?” Jason eyes the pile of test dummies, looking dubious. Which, fair. The little Batman figurine they used for the first test is barely recognizable, considering it’s partially melted and resolidified into a contorted, misshapen monstrosity redolent of body horror and fear. The second test subject, a Nightwing figurine, fared a little better once they tweaked the settings of their makeshift device based on the results of the first test.

“Yes,” Tim replies, annoyed at his lack of faith. As though he’d ever risk Timmy on something he isn’t positive will be safe.

Jason doesn’t seem to think so, though. He nudges at the Nightwing figurine with his boot, looking appalled. “Where’s his goddamn head?”

“The portal size on the return trip that time was too small,” Timmy says, defensive. “We fixed that, though. Look, the most recent test subject is just fine!” He points to the little Red Hood figurine, still intact and looking none the worse for its trip through the experimental portal to Timmy’s native universe and back.

Jason still looks dubious. “Okay, fine. But how do we know it’s safe for a living thing to go through? You know, like _Timmy?”_ He shoots a glance over at Timmy, worry and protectiveness barely masked by bluster.

Aw. Now that Tim’s had a chance to see Jason’s softer side, he’s turning out to be such a marshmallow.

Mmm, marshmallows… Tim blinks, forcing himself to focus. He shrugs. “We sent that ham sandwich you’re eating through the portal, and all the bacteria on it seem to have survived without any ill effects.”

Cursing, Jason drops the sandwich. “What the _fuck,_ how do we know this thing isn’t irradiated or something? Also, _bacteria?_ Why the hell would you let me eat this thing?” He glares at Tim, and it’s a mark of how far they’ve come that instead of tensing up in anticipation of an attack, Tim just grins playfully.

“Calm down, there’s bacteria everywhere. Those little guys are just the standard assortment you’d find on any processed food, they aren’t going to hurt you. As for radiation, the sensors with which we equipped the previous subjects provided continuous data, all of which demonstrates the safety of the portal tech.”

Tim bites back a smirk as Jason eyes him warily, then slowly reaches down to pick up the sandwich and brush it off, maintaining eye contact with him the entire time. He continues to stare at him challengingly as he bites into the sandwich again. Somehow, he makes it very sexy.

Wow. That’s… quite an accomplishment. Tim briefly wonders if aggressive eating is an actual kink. Yeah, probably best not to look that up.

He finds himself blushing for no good reason. At his side, Timmy snorts. “Oh my god, just send me home already. I’m not sure I want to still be here when you guys finally get over yourselves enough to work through all your unresolved sexual tension.”

Oh, god.

“Hey now,” Jason says mildly. He’s blushing. It’s surprisingly cute.

Clearing his throat, Tim decides to just leave that alone for the moment. “Anyway,” he says, surreptitiously nudging the Batman figurine under the desk so Jason won’t notice it’s smoking slightly now. No need to worry him any more than he already is. “I think we’re ready to send Timmy back. He’s got a communicator we modified so we’ll be able to keep in touch.”

Timmy nods, patting his pocket. “And now that we have a working device, we can even visit sometimes if we want.” He looks at them, smiling. “I’ll give you guys a while before coming back, though. Wouldn’t want to walk in on anything.” He winks. Dork.

Briefly, Tim considers pushing the button to send him back to his universe right now just to make him stop talking. Then he narrows his eyes, looking at his double consideringly. He’s seen the way the younger man looks at Jason. It’s almost the same way he does, after all. There’s no way Timmy doesn’t intend to look up the Jason in his own universe once he gets back. Tim smirks. He’ll have his chance to tease Timmy. Which he’ll do, relentlessly. He just needs to be patient.

“Wait, why do you have that look on your face?” Timmy looks mildly alarmed. So does Jason.

“Oh, no reason.”

“That’s ominous,” Jason mutters.

Tim raises a brow. “I was just thinking, since we have the portal tech worked out, there’s no reason to let up on your training.” He grins, knowing it’s sharp and a little scary by the way Timmy’s eyes widen and he gulps. “I think we can work out a training schedule that works for everyone.”

Timmy gulps and steps backward onto the platform. “I… Why does that sound like a threat?” He shakes his head, then gives them a small smile. “But fine. I know I still have a lot to learn from you both. Thanks for all your help, guys.”

Jason scoffs. “What the hell kinda goodbye is that?” Stepping onto the platform, he captures Timmy in a fierce hug. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

Watching them together, Tim feels oddly out of place, extraneous. It reminds him of the way he felt early on, when Jason and Timmy seemed to get along so well while he’d floundered along, seemingly unable to say anything without putting his foot in his mouth.

“You too,” Timmy says, squeezing back just as fiercely. Meeting Tim’s gaze, he frowns, then rolls his eyes, clearly picking up on Tim’s feelings and not approving. “Get over here,” he commands. So bossy.

Tim shuffles over and allows himself to be tugged into the group hug. It feels way better than he’ll ever admit, especially when Jason turns and pulls them both against his broad chest. Somehow, he and Jason end up standing shoulder to shoulder when they finally separate from Timmy and step back from the platform.

“Take care of each other,” Timmy says, then waves. He looks at Tim again and nods, expression going serious. It’s time.

Tim takes one last look at him, then presses the button to open the portal and send him home.

A flash of heat and light, and then he’s gone.

They both just stand there for a moment, staring at the empty space. A sense of unease begins to grow and Tim frowns. What if all their calculations were off somehow? What if he made a mistake, and Timmy’s in the wrong universe now, or worse—

He doesn’t get a chance to work up to a full panic. At that moment, the communicator in his ear crackles and then he hears Timmy’s voice, surprisingly clear considering it’s coming from an entirely different universe. “Hey guys! I just checked the readings, and I’m definitely back in my own universe.” He coughs. “Ugh, we should probably have done this somewhere else, though. This place is vacant in my universe. It’s full of cobwebs and I think there’s a dead rat in the corner.”

Ew. Tim clears his throat, smile growing as his relief at Timmy being home and _safe_ starts to register. “Maybe you should buy the place, clean it up a bit,” he suggests.

“Oh,” Timmy breathes, sounding delighted. “I could make my own Nest.” He starts muttering about crime lab space and server banks, which somehow segues into trust fund manipulation and investing in the Gotham underworld. That leads to something about how Drake Industries is well-positioned for influencing the black market, and _what?_

Tim blinks. That… sounds a little bit like supervillain ranting. He looks at Jason, then snorts a laugh. Jason’s grinning, looking so damn proud as he listens to Timmy planning what sounds like some kind of quasi-criminal empire. “Our little Timmy’s all grown up and taking over the Gotham underworld,” Jason says, bumping his shoulder against Tim’s companionably.

Well, maybe they should have expected Timmy wouldn’t be satisfied with a civilian life after everything he’s learned here. And for all his dubious ethics, Red Hood’s style of vigilantism does get results. It’s not so surprising Timmy’s planning to take a page from his mentor’s book. “I feel like I should be more upset about this.” He considers for a moment, then decides he really isn’t that concerned. He trusts Timmy not to go full darkside.

Anyway, it’ll be interesting to see where he ends up going with this.

He bites his lip, Timmy’s babbled plans still washing over them as he studies the man at his side. He’s had a lot of fun getting to know the real Jason over the past month, and the last thing he wants is to go back to the status quo now that their reason for spending time together is gone.

Jason catches him looking and glances at him questioningly. “Tim?” He hasn’t called him ‘Replacement’ in weeks, not since that time in the kitchen. His heart rate picks up and his stomach tightens with nerves at how close they’re standing. It’s possible part of his brain turns off.

“Hey, Jason.” Tim stares at him, mind calculating a dozen ways to go about this and dismissing each one. When he opens his mouth again, he has no idea what he’s about to say. “Feel like resolving some tension?”

Oh, _god._ Why is he like this? _Why?_

Jason stares at him, jaw dropped, then his handsome features sharpen into a wolfish smirk. “You know what? Yeah.” He leans in, warm breath ghosting across Tim’s ear and making him shiver. “I really do.”

And then his hands are on Tim’s hips, pulling him close, and his lips are brushing a trail of kisses along Tim’s jaw. When the kiss happens, he’s already breathless from anticipation.

It’s fantastic, bumped noses and all. Once they get the angle right, it’s _incredible._

They’re maybe starting to get a little into it when Timmy’s voice interrupts, sounding simultaneously mildly appalled and highly amused. “Oh my god, are you guys—are you _making out_ right now, while we’re on comms? Seriously? Wow, you didn’t even make it out of the lab, did you?” He snickers. “At least put the button down and move away from the portal device, the last thing we need is you two accidentally sending yourselves to some random universe in flagrante.” He pauses, clearly considering. “Or to this one. I don’t think it’s sanitary here, you guys would probably get tetanus or something.”

“Shut up,” Jason mutters, blushing to the tips of his ears.

Tim’s face is on fire. “Oh god,” he whispers, trying to hide his face in Jason’s shoulder as he starts to laugh. “Oh, _god.”_ He’s still holding the button to activate the portal device. Oops. He stretches his arm out to set it down on the nearest desk, and Jason edges them slightly farther away from the portal platform.

“We weren’t near the portal device,” Jason lies. Tim snickers.

“Sure, you weren’t,” Timmy mutters dubiously. “Okay, I’ve got a lot to do here. And you guys sound busy right now.” He cackles. “Talk to you later. Have fun, use protection, and let’s never speak of this again!” The comm crackles as he signs off.

They make eye contact and start laughing. Tim tucks the communicator away with a grin. “Just for that, I’m going to tell him _all_ about it.” 

Jason smirks. “Well, we’d best give you something to talk about then, yeah?” He pulls Tim back in for another kiss, and _damn,_ he’s good at this.

* * *

Gazing out over Gotham Harbor, Redbird double checks his bandoliers and holsters while waiting for the ship carrying an illicit cargo of explosive devices to arrive at Tricorner Yards. He already knows everything’s in place for his plan, having checked and double checked before leaving the Nest, but it’s always best to be certain. Tuning his comms to the Bats’ frequency, he listens for a moment.

Nightwing is teasing Bluejay. “So, you still chasing that new little bird all over town? What exactly are you planning to do when you catch him, anyway?” It sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

Bluejay sputters, trying to defend himself and just managing to sound dorky and cute. “I’ll tie him up! I mean—”

Nightwing descends into snickering. “I _bet_ you will.”

Redbird stifles a laugh. It’s so much fun being back in his own universe and spending time around a twenty-one year old Jason. Not only is he four years younger than Red Hood, he was spared most of the trauma that hardened his alternate self. It’s amazing how much difference a minor change can cause. In this universe, Batman got to the warehouse in time. Jason lived. It’s bizarre to realize that if events had played out just a little differently, Tim might have been Robin.

Well, he’s still not Robin, but he’s definitely stepped into the vigilante role over the past year. He’s calling himself Redbird, which seemed like a good compromise as a homage to the Red Robin and Red Hood who trained him, without drawing Batman’s ire by usurping the Robin name. Although he still doesn’t know why Drake laughed so hard the first time he told him his new vigilante name. Oh well. That guy’s a dork sometimes, he probably just thinks he’s being funny.

Over the comms, Bluejay’s voice rises, defensive. “Shut up, ‘Wing!” Redbird grins. Bluejay’s way less worldly and confident than Red Hood, and just as smart and cute. It’s a great combination and makes teasing him an endless delight.

Rolling his eyes and smirking as he remembers their last chase through the city, he switches over to listen in on Black Mask. The Bats clearly have no idea a shipment containing two tons of explosive devices is arriving tonight, or that Black Mask is planning to steal it from the Ghost Dragons.

Well, that should work out just fine for him. The last thing he needs is Bluejay or Nightwing or, god forbid, _Batman_ dropping in on him while he’s, ah, _appropriating_ that shipment. He smirks. Better him than Black Mask or the Dragons, right?

“We got the cargo in our sights,” a voice he recognizes as one of Black Mask’s crew leaders growls over the comms. “It’s heading into the harbor now.”

As the ship draws into sight, Redbird signals his minions. It’s great having minions, and they’re surprisingly easy to acquire. The Gotham underworld is full of people just trying to get by, many of them raising families. All he had to do was offer dental and a few other decent benefits, and he was practically inundated with applications.

Below, the ship draws into the dock and everything erupts into chaos. A fight breaks out, but resolves quickly as his own plants in both crews quickly subdue the few members of Black Mask’s and the Ghost Dragons’ crews he hasn’t been able to subvert. Yet. He plans to have a little talk with them, see if he can turn a few more before handing the most stubborn or loyal over to the police. If he’s lucky, he’ll get all of them and secretly control both gangs from the inside, just like he did with Penguin’s crew. If he’s careful about how he handles it, they won’t even mind.

Cracking his knuckles, he steps forward with a sharp, possibly feral grin. Time to work his magic.

* * *

Bluejay stifles a curse as he races across the rooftops, trying to catch up with Redbird. The slippery little shit is somehow managing to keep just ahead, and he’s _laughing_ at him. “Get back here! You’re just making it worse for yourself in the long run!”

His only answer is another loud cackle as the low-level villain shoots a line to swing across a broad gap between buildings.

“I know you’ve got something to do with those two tons of explosive devices that went missing from Tricorner Yards!” His lungs are burning as he pushes even harder to catch up. Why the hell is this guy so _fast?_ “Look, you’ve never done anything like this before. You’ve kept to low level stuff, but stealing shit this big is gonna get you on the Bat’s radar for real. C’mon, there’s no way you want that.”

He hopes not, anyway. It would really suck if he has to actually arrest Redbird. The guy’s been a lot of fun since he showed up out of the blue about six months ago, straddling the line between vigilante and villain. One night he’s making deals with drug lords, the next he’s dropping a load of the worst dealers and enforcers off in front of GCPD with dossiers of their crimes and a note saying they were competition he wants out of the way.

Hell, Batman probably already would’ve been out to recruit him, if it weren’t for the fact the guy uses guns sometimes. Non-lethal, but still. B’s never going to see eye to eye on that issue.

“I appreciate the warning, but I’m good.” Redbird grins, then disappears over the side of the next building.

By the time Bluejay gets there, he’s gone. “Damn it—”

He looks around, but can’t find any sign of which direction he might have gone. It’s annoying as hell, but he needs to get back to his patrol. Redbird will turn up again eventually. He always does.

“Hey, Bluejay,” Nightwing’s voice draws his attention to the comms. “You got a minute to help out with something?”

Bluejay glances around, gaze skimming over the rooftops one last time and searching the shadows for a lithe figure in red and black. Nothing. He sighs, then rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. “Yeah, ‘Wing. I’m free, go ahead.”

“There’s something going on over on the east side—B asked me to find you and look into it together. He’s finishing up dealing with the fallout from the latest JLA crisis, but we’ve got reports of a lot of unusual black-market movement…”

As Nightwing’s voice flows over him, outlining a situation involving what sounds like a hell of a lot of illicit money and weapons, Bluejay wonders in passing if this has anything to do with Redbird. The last thing he needs is to go up against him for real before he has a chance to convince him that being a vigilante is way more rewarding than a life of crime.

Then ‘Wing mentions a few murders thrown in on top of everything else, and he relaxes. There’s no way that’s Redbird. Whatever else the guy is, he’s not a murderer. Hell, Bluejay’s watched him in action, and he always goes out of his way to incapacitate and disable, even when it would be easier and quicker to just kill someone. He’s never taken a shot that could be lethal.

“Okay, ‘Wing. I’ll meet you there,” he says when the debrief is over and Nightwing finishes outlining his plan for investigation and surveillance. This should be a good distraction until Redbird turns up again, anyway.

* * *

Tim runs his fingers through his hair, trying to hide his unease as he closes out the meeting. His parents both showed up to watch, and he has a feeling they’ve got something they’re planning on telling him once they get him alone.

Hopefully it isn’t an announcement that they’re sending him to a college across the country. He’s grateful they allowed him to take a gap year to work for DI and recover from his ‘ordeal.’ It allowed him to establish himself as Redbird. If he has to leave now, he’s not sure he’ll be able to juggle all his various responsibilities without letting something fall through the cracks.

“I think we’ll both find this partnership highly profitable,” he says smoothly, giving the group of investors a charming smile. His dad beams at his side, clearly bursting with pride at how well his son has been performing in the internship, which quickly evolved into a management position once he began showing a real interest in the job.

He hides an internal smirk. Drake Industries makes an excellent cover for some of his less legal pursuits. It’s pretty nice to have his goals align at least partially with his parents’ plan for him, for a change.

As the investors file out, his mom turns to face him. After a moment, her corporate mask relaxes into something real and she smiles at him, pride and happiness filling her eyes. “Well done, Timothy. The Oswald Group contract is one we’ve been interested in for quite a while. It’s an excellent accomplishment, landing that within your first year with the company.”

“Thanks, Mom.” It definitely helps that with the Penguin in Redbird’s pocket, the Oswald Group has plenty of reason to go along with his suggestions. Well, that, and he didn’t lie—it _is_ going to be a highly profitable association for all of them. He never quite realized how well crime pays until he started his own criminal empire.

It was almost too easy, with detailed plans based on Red Hood’s instruction, experience in the other universe, and input from both Red Hood and Red Robin during their weekly training sessions. Plenty of the blackmail material and intel he got from them carried over, giving him a massive leg up on sinking his fingers into damn near every pie in the city. Positioning himself as the middleman for pretty much every drug and weapons deal going down in the city was meant to allow him some control over crime, to keep the drugs away from kids and the most dangerous criminals away from weapons. It’s working, but he’s almost embarrassed by how much cash he’s accumulating on the side.

His unexpected success as a crime lord almost eases the sting of not being able to pursue his photography seriously. Of course, he always knew there wasn’t much chance of that. It’s better this way. At least he’s doing good for the city, and the fact that he’s making his parents proud of him in the process is a nice bonus. He smiles.

His dad nods along, then clears his throat. “Ah, Tim…” He glances at his mom, who nods and then looks at him expectantly. “Well, your mother and I have been talking about your work lately, and all the effort you’ve put in since we got you back.” His voice breaks, and he blinks rapidly, clearly emotional at the reminder of the robot attack and the month Tim was missing, presumed dead.

Tim hides a wince, feeling a quick stab of guilt over the worry and grief his parents went through while he was in the alternate universe. A bystander had posted some shaky cell phone footage showing him disappearing when the robot pointed the weapon at him. His parents had been overwrought, going so far as to post a huge reward and hire private investigators on top of the police investigation because they wouldn’t accept his death without a body as proof.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, grateful once again that upon his return he was able to claim he’d just appeared in a different part of town after being zapped and only realized any time had passed when he saw the date on a newspaper. Between the experimental alien tech and Gotham’s general reputation for crazy, everyone had accepted the robot’s weapon must have teleported him across town with a little minor time travel thrown in for kicks.

He hadn’t had to fake an emotional reaction when he spotted the big green D of Drake Tower on the skyline and knew for sure that he was home. It was easy enough to convince his parents he needed a break to recover from his ordeal.

His mom wipes her eyes brusquely. “You have nothing to be sorry for, darling. Now, as your father was saying, we’ve been discussing your future.”

Well, that’s nothing new. Tim braces himself, waiting to hear which Ivy League university they’re planning to send him to. Hopefully it won’t be far—he needs to be close enough to Gotham to continue operating as Redbird. “Yes?”

She beams at him. “We’ve decided that based on the business acumen and skills you’ve shown and developed over the past year, you really don’t need to go away to school at this point. For your undergraduate work, you might as well stay here in Gotham and go to the local university so you can continue to work closely with us at DI. The real-world experience will serve you far better in the long run.” At his no doubt gaping expression, she smothers a laugh and shrugs. “You can always complete your postgraduate studies at an elite school—that’s the degree that matters the most, anyway.”

Well, that’s unexpected, and awesome. Now he won’t have to try to stretch himself to handle his Redbird undertakings long distance. “That sounds great, guys.” He smiles at his parents. “Thanks.” It really is going to be great, not having to push back against their plans for him anymore.

“Oh, that’s not all,” his dad says with a chuckle. Tim raises his eyebrows inquiringly. “Your mother and I went to the Gotham Museum of Art, while you were—” He breaks off, and his mother rubs his shoulder comfortingly.

“While you were gone, darling. When we were afraid—well, it doesn’t matter now. Anyway, we went to the museum because the director had a portfolio of photographs you’d taken, and she contacted us for permission to include them in an exhibit. We allowed it, of course, after all applying for that exhibit was practically the last thing you’d ever _done—”_

Tim stares in shock and dismay as his calm, collected mom covers her mouth with a hand and squeezes her eyes shut. “Mom!” He awkwardly wraps an arm around her and pats her on the back. “I’m fine. I’m sorry you guys were scared, but I swear, I’m _fine.”_

She sniffs. “I know that, darling.” Shaking herself, she continues. “Anyway, we went to the exhibition, and oh, Timothy, your _photographs—_ they were wonderful. I never really looked at them before, when you were a tiny thing capering around snapping pictures of birds and clouds and your father when he fell asleep on the couch—”

“Hey,” his dad grumbles, but he’s smiling. “Those old photos of me snoring away on the couch might just be worth something, someday.” He reaches out and ruffles Tim’s hair. “What we’re trying to say is we think you’ve got something there, sport, and we’re sorry we’ve been trying to stifle it. If you want to take some photography classes or spend some hours freelancing, we’re willing to support that.”

Holy shit.

“Really?” Tim says faintly, before he can stop himself. He’d never really thought his parents would offer any kind of support for his hobby. “You don’t think it’s a waste of time?”

His mom snorts delicately and actually rolls her eyes. “Really, Timothy. If I had thought it was a waste of time, I would never have gifted you expensive cameras and a dark room in the first place. Of course I wanted you to develop your interests. Now that you’ve shown your talent and dedication when it comes to the family business, I’m far more comfortable with the idea of you indulging your other hobbies.” She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re more like us than you think, darling. Apparently, our family is never satisfied excelling at any one pursuit—we must have more to keep us occupied.” She and his dad chuckle, and Tim smiles.

Huh, he never considered it before, but it kind of makes sense. His parents are business executives who run a thriving international corporation and moonlight as world-renowned archaeologists. He’s an up-and-coming business executive who moonlights as a skilled photographer, vigilante, and crime lord. Hmm. It’s possible they wouldn’t be as proud of him if they knew that last bit. Although, considering some of the things he’s found in the DI books since he took on the internship, the apple really isn’t falling _that_ far from the tree.

Tim grins. “I never thought of it like that before.” His parents smile and fuss over him before hurrying off to make their next meetings. He stays in his seat for a few more minutes, mind rearranging facts and reformulating plans based on the new data input.

Well, it seems like his life is falling right into place. He frowns. That usually means that something’s about to go wrong. As if on cue, his watch pings. That’s odd; everything should be set to silent unless something’s gone _really_ wrong. Maybe one of the rogues who isn’t cooperating with him is making trouble for his people? According to his intel, the Joker’s on the loose right now, and might be feeling a little snubbed because he’s the one guy Redbird absolutely _won’t_ make a deal with.

Glancing down, he sees it’s not on his channels at all. It’s an emergency alert on the Bats’ channel. Nightwing’s sending out an all hands call. As he reads it, his blood runs cold. Bluejay’s missing, and has been since last night.

Oh, _shit._

Narrowing his eyes, he reaches for his pocket. Jason’s too important to risk. It’s time to call in the big guns.

* * *

“This is going to _hurt you_ a lot more than it does _me.”_

That damn voice sends chills down Bluejay’s spine. He fights back nausea as memories threaten to overwhelm him of the last time he was in this position. He glares up at the sick bastard while desperately working at the restraints behind his back. If he can just get his hands loose…

Swallowing, he forces more bravado than he’s feeling into his voice as he stares down the motherfucking Joker. “You sure about that? I mean, last time you got ahold of me, B broke your goddamn legs after, and that sure looked like it hurt a hell of a lot.” He grins, knowing there’s blood on his teeth from where the Joker’s goons hit him when they tackled him on his way to meet Nightwing after Redbird got away. They must’ve drugged him, since he doesn’t remember being knocked out. Or how long it’s been since they took him.

He should probably shut up, but he’s hoping if he can keep the clown talking, it’ll delay the inevitable beating long enough for him to escape. He knows better than to expect someone to come find them this time. Miracles don’t happen twice.

The cackling madman standing over him doesn’t give him time to work his hands free. “Your little friend Redbird thinks he can just sweep in here and take over _my_ city. Who does he think he is, stealing _my_ spotlight? I think it’s time to send him a little present to show him exactly how _welcome_ he is here. He seems to like you. I wonder how much he’ll like you once _I’m_ done with you.”

There’s a crowbar in his hand. Bluejay’s vision swims for a moment when he spots it before he forces himself to focus.

“You’re crazy, why the fuck would some villain give a shit if you killed me? He’d probably figure it’s good riddance.” He’s pretty sure he’s not making it out of here, but the idea of Joker going after Redbird next sends a little frisson of alarm through him. Redbird may not be entirely on the up and up, but Bluejay’s seen him rescuing goddamn kittens from the trash when he heard them crying for their mom on his way back from whatever shady dealings he was involved in that night. He doesn’t deserve whatever shit the Joker’s going to do to him.

The Joker cackles. “And it’s been too long since I’ve played with Batsy, but this present is for him, too. It’s like killing two birds with one stone! Well, killing one bird with a crowbar, but whatever. Or maybe I’ll go after Redbird once I’m done with you. Two birds, one _crowbar!_ Ha ha HA!”

Fuck. This guy’s insane. Bluejay redoubles his efforts to get loose. Images fill his mind, of Redbird’s teasing smirk, the playful grin he gets when he’s tossing one-liners over his shoulder before fleeing into the night, and the softer smiles that cross his face sometimes when he’s looking at Bluejay. “You piece of shit, you really think you’re gonna get away with this?”

Joker grins, wide and unhinged. High-pitched, terrifying laughter shaking his frame as he raises the crowbar menacingly. “Oh, I don’t think that far ahead! It’s all about the fun I have along the way! Ha ha HA! Starting with right now—you and I are going to play a little game I like to call, _‘How’s my forehand?’_ Remember that one, _Robin?_ Last time, we got interrupted. But I’m pretty sure I was _winning!”_ He punctuates the last sentence by raising the crowbar even higher, readying for a brutal swing.

Bluejay freezes in place, waiting for the first blow of the crowbar. Painful, agonizing memories crowd their way forward in his mind and he braces, knowing exactly how much this is going to hurt.

There’s one thought running through his mind on repeat. Batman’s still gone, out of town with the Justice League. He’s not coming to save him this time.

Nightwing’s definitely looking for him, since he didn’t show up at the rendezvous, but Bluejay would just as soon not bring his big brother into this. The last thing he needs is to drag Nightwing down, too. He doesn’t want to think about what losing both of them would do to Bruce, and _Alfred._

“Fuck,” he whispers, not even meaning to speak. His body braces, tightening up in anticipation for the agonizing pain he _knows,_ still feels sometimes in his worst nightmares. “Don’t—”

The Joker’s laughter interrupts whatever he was about to say. It’s loud and ugly and entirely humorless. The madman grins wide in a horrible facsimile of good cheer. “Now, now, you’re stuck here until Uncle Joker says so. Time to play the game, my boy!” With that, the son of a bitch swings the damn crowbar down, right at Bluejay’s unprotected chest.

“Like _hell,”_ a voice growls, and then there’s a loud _pop._ The Joker hisses in surprise, hand loosening on the crowbar as a bullet passes close enough that Bluejay sees a short lock of green hair detach itself from his head and flop limply to the floor.

_Holy shit._

The next second, the warehouse is filled with shouting voices, the sounds of fists hitting flesh, and the telltale hiss of smoke bombs.

Bluejay squints through the haze, trying to make out the combatants. Some of the voices sound familiar, but… He redoubles his efforts, and finally manages to work his hands free. Scrabbling at the rest of his restraints, he manages to free himself a moment before a gauntleted hand closes on his shoulder. “B—” he gasps in relief, turning to see…

Well, that’s sure as hell not Batman.

“C’mon,” Not-Batman says urgently, lifting him to his feet and shoving a shoulder under his arm to start hauling his limping ass away from the thick of the fight. “Joker has more goons coming—we need to get out of here so the others can really let loose.”

Others? Bluejay throws a look back over his shoulder, and _oh._ That’s Redbird, taking out goons with a spinning kick. His guns are holstered now, because apparently he has the sense to be worried about accidentally shooting allies through the lingering smoke in the enclosed warehouse. Beyond him, there’s a big guy in a red helmet taking on the Joker himself, and it looks like he’s winning. “Who are _you,_ anyway?” He eyes his rescuer skeptically. “Condomhead Man? That’s dumb. Redbird has weird friends.”

“Goddamn it,” Condomhead Man whispers, sounding supremely irritated as he continues to half carry, half drag him away from the fight.

Behind them, Redbird snickers. Red Helmet Guy is laughing out loud, although that might be more because he seems to have gotten the crowbar away from the Joker and is now beating him with it.

Bluejay approves.

A few minutes later, he’s craning his neck on a rooftop across the way, trying to see what’s going down with the warehouse fight. He squirms and grumbles as Condomhead Man finishes checking him over for injuries. The man sighs, seeming relieved at only finding minor scrapes. “Thank goodness you’re okay,” Condomhead Man says, stepping back.

“Uh, thanks for that, I guess,” he says, uncomfortable. It feels weird owing his life to someone when he doesn’t even know his name.

“Red, he okay?” The big guy from the warehouse lands with a thump beside them, joined a moment later by Redbird. They both relax at Condomhead’s—er, Red’s—answering nod.

“Where’s the Joker?” Bluejay’s gaze flicks back to the warehouse just in time to see its walls collapse outward in a fiery explosion. “Uh…” It’s not that he doesn’t want the clown dead for everything he’s done to so many innocent people over the years, but…

“Don’t worry, kid. We tied the goons up and piled ‘em up outside for the cops. Joker too, although he won’t be walking for a long while. If ever.” Red Helmet Guy reaches back and cracks open his helmet, then pulls it off with a grin and a sigh of relief. “Fuck, it gets stuffy in there when I need to change out the filters. Smoke’s hell on ‘em. But seriously, you okay, kid?” He eyes Bluejay with poorly hidden concern in his oddly teal-colored eyes.

Bluejay barely notices the eyes, or the swatch of white hair, because _every other detail_ of the man’s face is achingly familiar. It’s like he’s staring into a funhouse mirror, and seeing an older, slightly off version of his own face. “What the fuck,” he says, blinking hard to try to clear his vision. “Did they drug me when I wasn’t looking? Am I _hallucinating_ right now?”

“Shit,” Red Helmet Guy says, sounding slightly remorseful, then shrugs. “Fuck it. I’m Red Hood—you from an alternate universe Redbird got stranded in a while back—and Red Robin over there is my boyfriend. Redbird called us when he found out you were missing, to help find you and take down the clown.”

Well, that makes sense. Kinda. “I can see you guys know how to fight, but how would you be able to help find me?”

Condomhead Guy smirks. It’s a familiar smirk. Bluejay stares at him, eyes narrowing, as he speaks. “We happen to have some tech that allows us to track down alternate selves. We tuned it to Jason and then used it to find you fast.”

Holy shit. “That’s cool. Uh, and who are _you,_ exactly?” There’s no way this guy isn’t the alternate universe version of Redbird. They have the same smirk, and voice, and—he tries to check surreptitiously, but fails if the shit-eating grin on Red Hood’s face is any indicator—the same sexy little ass.

Condomhead Guy calmly reaches up and peels off his cowl. _Tim Goddamn Drake_ smiles up at him, cool as you please. “I’m Tim,” he says, as though he hasn’t just blown Bluejay’s mind. “Pleased to meet you.”

Redbird buries his face in his hands. “Oh my god, I can’t take you guys _anywhere.”_

“I can’t believe Tim Drake is a D-list villain,” Bluejay says faintly, blinking. “B’s always telling me what a goddamn role model you are. Best up-and-coming young businessman and philanthropist in the city, a goddamn example to us all. And all this time, you’ve been stealing guns and running a motherfucking criminal empire. Holy shit. You’re my hero. You’re not only hot, you’re also smart as fuck.”

Redbird, who opened his mouth huffily at being called a D-list villain, pauses, mouth still hanging open. “...You think I’m hot? I mean—” He blushes, sputtering, then corrects himself, “—smart. That’s what I said. Not… the other thing.” He frowns. “But I’m not _really_ a villain. I mean, I only engage in crime in order to control and mitigate it from within.”

So fucking hot.

Before he has a chance to think much about it, Bluejay opens his mouth. “You wanna team up sometime?” He ignores Red Hood and Red Robin, both of whom are watching their awkward exchange with matching devilish grins. Assholes.

Redbird bites his lip, then cracks a grin. “Heck yeah I do!” He’s fucking adorable. In the background, Red Hood and Red Robin are now exchanging cash, because this is somehow his life.

Bluejay grins back, then remembers his short-lived phase as Flamebird. Not only did the costume suck, but Nightwing had also considered him a goddamn _sidekick._ As if. “Partners, right?” he asks, suspiciously. “Not sidekicks?”

Redbird blinks, clearly confused. “No?”

“Good.” Bluejay can definitely roll with this. Then he frowns. “Wait, did anyone tell Nightwing I’m okay?”

“Oh, shit,” Redbird mutters, looking guilty. “I knew I was forgetting something.” He hands Bluejay a device that looks a lot like one of the Bats’ communicators.

Sighing, Bluejay shakes his head and doesn’t ask. Good thing he’s teaming up with this guy. He’s clearly a massive security risk and shouldn’t be left unsupervised. Clicking the comm on, he clears his throat. “Nightwing?”

His brother’s worried, protective voice answers immediately. “Jay! _Where are you?”_

“Funny story,” he hedges, glancing over at the others. _Are they staying,_ he mouths. When the others just shrug and nod, he chuckles. “Had a last minute save by some, uh, guests. Can you ask Agent A to get a spread ready? I’ve got a story to tell, and I think these guys do, too. Might as well bring ‘em home and hear it there.”

“I—okay. Okay. Jay, just tell me, are you _alright?”_ The desperate note in Nightwing’s voice makes him flinch. He can’t help but notice Red Hood flinching with him.

“Yeah, ‘Wing. I’m good. They… got there in time.” _Again,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say. Apparently, he hasn’t run out of miracles just yet. His lips twitch in a faint smile. “Uh, can you ask him to make pizza?” His voice breaks on the last word. For a few minutes back there, he hadn’t thought he’d ever get to have Alfred’s pizza again.

Red Hood reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder, offering silent comfort. Red Robin leans into Red Hood’s side, and the big man drapes an arm over his boyfriend’s shoulders.

Redbird edges closer, looking like he wants to help, too. Bluejay grins at the sight, letting himself be distracted. His new partner’s so damn cute. And if their alternate selves are an example of how they get along together, they might be compatible in a lot more ways than just the vigilante work. His grin widens.

Nightwing’s answering him. “Sure, of course. Actually, Agent A’s already making that. He knows it’s your favorite and wanted it to be ready to welcome you home.” His voice goes hoarse, and he falls silent.

Bluejay finds himself overwhelmed for a moment at the thought of the kind old man, practically his grandpa, waiting and worrying over him, making him food in the hopes he’d survive and come home to enjoy it. Fuck, he needs to hug Alfie when he gets home.

Red Hood clears his throat and answers when it becomes apparent Bluejay can’t. “Yeah, Dickie, we’ll be there soon.” His deep voice, recognizable but lower and more mature than Bluejay’s, sends Nightwing squawking questions over the comm.

“We’ll be there soon,” Bluejay interrupts. “Uh, four of us. I swear, we’ll explain things when we get there!” It’ll be fine. There’s nothing quite like miraculous saves and Alfred pizza for bringing people together.

Red Hood and Red Robin drop down to the street, where Redbird apparently had a car waiting. Bluejay moves to follow, then hesitates, looking at Redbird. “Hey… Tim?”

Redbird turns to face him, a light tint rising to his cheeks at the use of his real name. “Yeah?”

Bluejay swallows. “Thanks. For doing all this. You…” He shakes his head, unable to verbalize how it felt to be pulled from the brink of torture and death after already practically resigning himself to it. “Thanks,” is all he manages.

“Oh,” Redbird whispers, looking stricken, and then he steps forward and slowly, gently encloses Bluejay in his arms. “Jay, you’re okay. You’re safe. There’s nothing to thank me for, I was just doing the only thing I could. I’m sorry I wasn’t faster.”

Bluejay reflexively wraps himself around the shorter man, then relaxes into the hug with a sigh. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, you got there in time—” He breaks off, shaking his head to push away thoughts of what might have been. “You’re poking me,” he complains after a moment, leaning back slightly to look down at him.

“Oh,” Redbird says, hand going to his side to adjust his holster as he flushes. “Sorry.”

From the street below, the sound of Red Hood guffawing and Red Robin snickering floats up to them. “Don’t mind that—he’s just really excited ‘cause he likes you so much!” Red Hood shouts, then starts laughing like a bastard.

Redbird closes his eyes, hiding his face in Bluejay’s shoulder. “No, _why?”_ He looks so adorable and upset Bluejay can’t hold back a chuckle.

“It’s okay, Redbird—it happens to a lot of guys your age! Your control will get better as you get older!” Red Robin’s voice dissolves into laughter, and there’s a smacking sound suspiciously like he and Red Hood just high-fived.

“I changed my mind. Let’s just send them home _now,”_ Redbird mutters. “They don’t _deserve_ pizza.” Raising his voice, he shouts back, “It’s my _gun,_ okay? I’m poking him with _my gun,_ not—anything _else.”_ He shakes his head, looking harassed. 

Bluejay just looks at him, then down to the street, then starts to laugh. “Fuck, this is gonna be fun,” he says, stepping back and catching Redbird’s hand to pull him along as he moves toward the edge of the rooftop. “Let’s go have some pizza.”

He has a feeling the night’s just going to keep getting better from here. Redbird doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he weaves their fingers together and gives him a shy smile. “Sounds good to me, Jay.”

Oh, _hell_ yeah. Bluejay squeezes his hand and grins back. Even Red Hood and Red Robin whooping and catcalling from down below can’t spoil the moment. Ignoring them, Redbird launches his grapnel and raises a brow invitingly. Right, Bluejay has no idea where his own grapnel is right now. Probably blown up in that warehouse. He smirks as he steps into the circle of Redbird’s arms, and then laughs out loud and clutches at him as he’s literally swept off his feet and into the bright night sky.

Yeah, this partnership is gonna be a hell of a ride.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Red Hood, grinning like a bastard:** “Hey Red, pass me another slice?”  
>  **Red Robin, smirking:** “Sure, Red” *Hands him more pizza with a kiss* “Red, can I get some parmesan?”  
>  **Redbird, sliding it down the table:** “Here you go, Red”  
>  **Nightwing, staring from one to the other, baffled:** “Seriously? How do you guys even know who you mean when you ALL call each other Red?” *Throws up his hands when everyone ignores him*  
>  **Bluejay, snickering:** “They just KNOW, don’t question it or you’ll be sorry”  
>  **Nightwing, narrowing his eyes:** “Hey Red, hit me with some more pizza” *Ducks as all three Reds pelt him with multiple slices of pizza* “WHHYY”  
>  **Bluejay, peeling a slice of pizza off of Nightwing and biting into it:** “What? I told you not to question it”  
> *  
> Between brainstorming, writing, and doing the beta for this story, this work contains contributions from ayzengima, azemex, bewaretheboojum, nanimok, njw, rider_of_spades, themandylion, salazarastark, silver_snow_77, and vellaphoria. 
> 
> Thanks, everyone, for all your ideas and effort in putting together this gift for Jei!
> 
> [Capes & Coffee Tim Drake discord server](https://discord.gg/bGhpCDn)  
> *  
> Writers: Bewaretheboojum, Nanimok, njw  
> Beta: Rider_Of_Spades, Salazarastark


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